The 2015 Non-Annual, Bi-Frequently, Semi-Periodic Philadelphia Phillies Bucket List
Sadly, by Cindy Falteich
It’s time once again to face my certain mortality by compiling a grocery list of things no one would ever buy. It's much like the stuff you look forward to but are happy when it’s over—like the holidays. Or sex with your husband. Or mine. Or Super Bowl XLIX.
It’s time once again to face my certain mortality by compiling a grocery list of things no one would ever buy. It's much like the stuff you look forward to but are happy when it’s over—like the holidays. Or sex with your husband. Or mine. Or Super Bowl XLIX.
What the hell number is that anyway? Is that a niner in
there? Guys, let’s stop pretending we’re Egyptian.
Or Greek. Or Thai. Or smart. In any case, the average
football fan has no idea what you’re talking about. For Pete’s sake, I thought
XLIX was the name of a drug. Or E.L. James had coined another term for erotic.
Or it was a test. If we’ve learned anything from politics,
it should be that we hate thinking.
Anyway, as I sit here pondering my pre-death desires, I
hopped on Facebook.
Isn’t that what everyone does when faced with an important
decision? I get the best ideas from intimate stuff that’s been shared publicly.
Like an STD.
My son tells me I should watch Vine videos. He says in six
second intervals I can get everything I need.
I’m married. No duh.
Now, when I thought about the organization of my list, I
considered bullets or numbers or pinning the tail on Chase Utley’s butt. I even
tried little Ben Revere silhouettes but I couldn’t get them to stand still. So
I settled for the rant. Not only is the rant my favorite form of communication,
it’s possibly the least effective one.
In that case, it’ll work quite well. I strive to be
different but I’ve been called much worse.
Without further ado, here’s my list:
I want to drive the Bullet Mustang down I-76 so fast I
travel through time and crash into Steve McQueen in a provocative position in a
time period before those stalker laws took effect.
I’m far too familiar with them.
When my child whines because of a sliver, I’d like to find
it without renting an electron microscope.
I want to know why semi-annual bra sales happen every other
month.
Like my mom, I want to go to a turtle feed. I imagine
nothing says you’re a wimp like calling yourself a “turtle hunter.” Why not
wait until they hibernate and buy some expensive insulated gear so you can
pluck a snoozing turtle from his sleeping frozen brood. Like a man.
Pussy.
I want boob jobs to come in really fun shapes so when I
refer to them in a cute way, people can say, “Yes, you could definitely call
those 'cup cakes'.”
I want the Phillies lineup molded in chocolate.
I want a pair of shoes so cute they get me laid—by a
stranger.
I want to see Kim Kardashian talk a cop out of a traffic
ticket on two hours of sleep and baby burp in her hair.
I want pimples to be considered accessories. And I want
designer stickers I can place around them so they look like they’re
intentional.
I want it to be cool to have your house filled with the
aroma of cat shit. Matter-of-fact, I think we should all be more like cats and
poop in a box, track litter through the house, and display our pristinely clean
naked buttholes as we walk. With attitude. That’s true self-esteem.
Come to think of it, I think I’ll have my cat’s snowy white
hole tattooed so he can call more attention to it. At least when he shoves it
in my face, I’ll feel like I'm looking at something pricey. Or maybe I’ll get
it pierced. I’ll take out the hoop only when I’m not home.
I want wrinkles to be so cool we Photoshop them in instead
of out.
I want to smell like toast.
I want chocolate syrup to be considered acceptable office
apparel and I want sex therapy to count for college credit.
I want Dr. Ruth nominated for sainthood.
I want a Kama Sutra app. I want it to pick the right sexual
position taking in consideration the season, time of day and what my husband
has eaten for dinner. Then I want it to honestly tell me whether it’s
disgusting that we do it at all.
I want someone to clean out the trash in the back seat of my
car. And I want that to be the person who put it there. Cue my child.
I want a messy car to be cool. I want driving a crappy car
to be cool. And I think being stranded on the side of the road waiting for AAA
should earn you American Express points.
I want giving a bad haircut to be punishable by law.
By court order, I want people who say mean things to take it
back.
I want crime to be punishable by spanking. And I want to be
the spanker. On that note, I want it to be illegal to be listed as one of
People magazine’s sexiest men.
I want a winter jacket that looks like Cliff Lee so I can
wear him on my body. I mean … “it” on my body.
I want cup size to be listed on baseball trading cards.
I want baby boomers to stop insulting their parents by
saying 60 is the new 50. Your parents were a lot cooler than you at 60. That’s
because they didn’t have to pretend they cared what you thought. The truth is, you’re
still a little snot.
On that note, fuck “this” is the new “that.” And check your
color wheel. Orange will never be freaking black. And you’ll still be a little
snot.
I still want Kevin Costner to give me a long, slow, deep,
soft, wet kiss that lasts three days. Damn, when will he read my blog?
I want Charlie Manuel and Mike Schmidt to walk around
Citizens Bank Park with a portable karaoke machine and sing duets with the
masses. I want it broadcast on Phan-a-vision and I want the winner to get a
shot at The Voice.
I want congress to be picked by a lottery.
I want Tom Verducci to write my eulogy. And in my will, I’ll
denote the person who should abduct him and bring him to the funeral to do
that. It might sound like he wouldn’t voluntarily do this and that is correct.
That’s why you should always have a plan B.
Most of all, I want Harold Reynolds on a pair of pajamas. Or
better yet, in my pajamas. Well, if I wore pajamas I’d want him in them. Note
to self: Start wearing pajamas.
So that’s my list. Now that players have reported for duty,
I think it’s high time I did too. Baseball is something fans enjoy and I should
help them do that. And part of baseball is losing. So by the transitive
property, losing should equal enjoyment.
Actually, that’s the Phillies' birthright. It doesn’t matter
if you’re on the top or the bottom, as long as no one gets hurt.
Unless you’re E. L. James. Or under her.
See you at the ballpark.
~
To view Cindy's awesome new website, click here.
To subscribe to Cindy's email list, click here.
Read The Aliquot Sum, a novel by Cindy Falteich.
Written for the new-adult genre.
Soon to be major motion picture!
Thanks for reading! Copyright © 2015 Cindy Falteich, All
rights reserved.
I think Kevin Costner is a fan of massage parlors. Just sayin. Maybe you could tweet him?
ReplyDeleteI'm game! Do you know his Twitter handle? Are they called "handles" or am I lapsing into '80's trucker talk. Thanks for reading!
Delete"I want cup size to be listed on baseball trading cards." You are my hero.
ReplyDeleteKim, it just had to be said. :) Thanks for reading.
DeleteHi Cindy, another Philly girl here. Loved your funny post and happy to meet you.
ReplyDeleteVery nice to meet you, Helene. The season is just heating up. Thanks for reading. Go Phils!
DeleteI laughed and shook my head so many times reading this! Yes!
ReplyDeleteThanks so much for reading, Andi. Have a great time with your travels!
DeleteOh I love your list!!! Funny, I want to smell like toast too! Thank you for the laugh -- so welcome!
ReplyDeleteYou are welcome, Ruth. And thanks for reading. ;)
DeleteI'm laughing so hard at this -- and I'm a Yankee fan. Want to talk about problems? We have to take A-Rod back this year! You're welcome.
ReplyDeleteLois, look on the bright side, at least Alex is easy on the eyes. I find it ironic that, for the Phillies at least, the guys who contributed to the last losing season all want off the team. Because of losing. I told them not to let Hunter Pence go! Thanks for reading!
DeleteAs someone who purchases her Phillies tickets according to the best butt view, I can appreciate your take. Cup size on trading cards wouldn't it be about time!
ReplyDeleteHow I miss Raul Ibanez for that very reason!
DeleteIf you wear pajamas, it's a sign to a man to pitch out and try for the next batter.
ReplyDeleteDavid, why do you think women wear pajamas.
Delete